The Poet and the Pendulum
by Artemisdesari
Summary: Cas goes up against Michael. Character death, or is there? One shot Dean/Cas implied


_So I'm an idiot who reads spoilers, gets upset by them, and the writes fic to make myself feel better that actually makes me feel worse. I'm inflicting it on all of you now too. Because I can._

_**Disclaimer:** If I owned them, that horrible spoiler that hints at possible character death will never happen, Dean and Cas will ride off into the sunset together in the Impala to have lots of hot sex. Sam can do whatever he likes._

_Title is from the Nightwish song of the same name. It has nothing at all to do with the fic other than the fact that I was listening to the instrumental version when I wrote this.  
_

The Poet and the Pendulum.

Castiel knows that there is a very real possibility that he is not walking away from this fight, not walking away from this last moment of defiance on Dean's part. This is Michael that they are going up against. He has no defence against an archangel so very powerful and he has a great many regrets.

It does not stop him from raising his chin in the face of his brother's evident disapproval. It does not stop him from moving to Dean's side, sword in hand, as the archangel steps forward.

Michael is wearing the body of a young man, a boy, and Castiel knows it, recognises it because this is the body of Adam, the third son of John Winchester. He is not suited to hold the full might of Michael's grace for long, but it will be long enough and the angel cannot allow Michael to take Dean, not this way.

He thinks of Heaven as he raises his sword in salute to his older brother, as he offers a last prayer to his Father. He thinks of the early days of his creation, fresh, new, wide eyed and untainted by the war that had torn Heaven asunder. It was a war that had taught him a great deal about loyalty. He remembers the dying cries of his brethren, those who sided with the Morning Star and those who did not, he remembers the sorrow on the face of the messenger and the anger in the form of Michael.

That same anger is directed at him now, the anger of one betrayed, of one who has seen too many of his family turn away from him. Castiel knows that the same emotion is displayed through the eyes of his vessel now, though it burns a thousand degrees stronger in him than it ever will in Michael.

He is afraid, he realises.

Still, it does not stop him from trying to save Dean, trying to save Sam, trying to prevent what must come to pass. It is a fruitless battle and one that he knows he cannot win.

"I brought you back," Michael tells him, "I returned you to this world and this is the way that you repay my generosity?" That _hurts_, because for so long Castiel has hoped that his return was proof of the existence of his Father still. Now it seems that it is just another trick.

Silver flashes and blade meets blade.

"You're lying," he grinds out as Michael flicks him away like nothing more than a fly.

"No, brother, not about this. I knew that Zachariah would take unacceptable measures, I knew that neither of these boys were ready for their destiny. You have prepared them well."

It is the truth, all this time he has been with them, hiding them from other angels so that they might never be found, protecting them and exposing them only to the worst elements, pushing them closer together and yet further apart with each passing day. He has defended them, become friends with them and developed a desire for _so much more_ with one of them. He has shown them that angels can feel and they can fall and they can hurt. Time and again he has put them in a position to meet other angels, ones who must be stopped, ones who must be heard. He was returned as a sign of benevolence.

He is killed as a sign that what Michael can give, he can take away again.

The blade does not hurt as he had expected it to and he hears Dean cry out over the tearing sound of his own breathing, hears the hoarse 'yes' as Micheal offers to return him if Dean allows him to use his body, sees the white light of Heaven for a brief and tantalising moment before there is nothingness.

_I read too much into implied things. This is fourteen minutes of writing, if I can churn out six hundred words in fourteen minutes I'm doing something right. Whether the six hundred words are good words is a matter of opinion._

_Artemis  
_


End file.
